The Coldenhall Legacy
by Boston Manor
Summary: COMPLETE! It is 1896 and Sherlock Holmes is so, so bored - until Watson suggests he volunteers his services in a case which has the locals baffled. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

**THE COLDENHALL LEGACY**

**Disclaimer: **It's been a little while since I did a decent length story, so here is one which has been in my mind for a little while. Hope you like it. The Holmes brothers and Watson are creations of Conan Doyle, other characters are mine.

**Chapter 1 – Report of a Tragedy**

There are many words and phrases that can be used to describe my good friend Sherlock Holmes. Of the positive, my mind immediately thinks of 'brilliant', 'incisive', 'insightful'. However there is a darker side of his character as well; 'impatient', 'tactless' and 'frustrating' are equally at home in any consideration of his daily life and routine.

By the spring of 1896 I had suffered these extremes of his character for some years. At first I had been upset by them, and had taken them personally; but as the time passed and I grew to understand his manners I was able to formulate my own responses, by which I intended to lift him out of the dark moods and to encourage continuation of the good.

My plans never worked of course.

But I was ever willing to continue my attempts to instill in him some form of civilisation whereby his fellow men would be able, perhaps, to feel less challenged in their dealings with him, less threatened and more willing to unburden themselves so that the full extent of their need was able to be quickly assessed. Reading the works of the new natural philosophers I was convinced that in this way the cases which my friend took upon himself would be more rapidly solved.

Or so I thought.

What I never allowed for, of course, was the fact that Holmes did not want to change. His _modus operandi_ was indeed to be, and to remain, stand-offish, remote, removed from the trifling details which allowed him to cut to the core of the issues that were presented to him.

But today, 29th February, I had a new trick up my sleeve. When I first met him, I had been amazed that some aspects of his knowledge were encyclopaedic, whereas he was apparently willingly ignorant of some basic facts in other areas of science. On this day, with him sitting in a window chair watching absent mindedly at Baker Street's hustle and bustle, with no cases to hand, I had my opportunity.

"Holmes?"

Wearily he turned to me through the haze of smoke that surrounded the chair, and stopped toying with the emerald tiepin he wore as he gazed into space. "Yes, Watson?"

"Do you know what today is?"

"Of course. I have read the morning papers. They are all dated. If this is to be the standard of conversation, it is going to be a long day. Even longer than necessary. I cannot stand the waiting and the boredom."

"Why waiting?" I asked, before recalling the packet he had sent off the previous month. "Ah, yes, your latest book."

"They said they would publish it post haste. And yet _On the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus_ remains unread by the wider world. Such beauty to the ears, layer on layer of voice, and now expounded for the first time."

I was not going to be distracted and dragged the conversation back on course. "Do you recall one of our first conversations – about how you were not interested in whether the earth moved around the sun, or vice versa.?"

Holmes shifted in his seat, as if uneasy. "Of course. It is an accurate assessment of the relative importance of the facts and how they impact upon my work."

"And yet today would not exist without those facts of astronomy which you otherwise ignore."

"Please do not be so tiresome. Where is this leading?"

"Today is Leap Year's Day."

"And?"

"The earth does not take merely 365 days to travel around the sun, Holmes. It takes a quarter extra day. And so every four years an extra day is added to the Calendar." I was getting quite into my stride. "And so, despite your statement that the sun, moon and stars have no importance to you, in reality today only exists because of that astronomic fact."

Holmes smiled indulgently. "I stand corrected, Watson," he said. "Never again will I make such brash statements. Although of course you are somewhat incorrect in your details. The earth does not take an extra quarter day per year, there is an excess over that of some nine minutes; hence on three of each four century days there is no Leap Year Day added since otherwise the calendar would get ahead of itself ..."

"Oh! Very well!" I exclaimed, half indignantly and half amused, for the tone of his voice was clear, and I fully understood his insistence from our first meeting that it made little impact to a lump of soil or a specimen of blood whether the moon even existed.

"Yet still the day draws out before us, Watson," continued Holmes. "It has now been ninety-two days since an interesting case presented itself to me – and even that was the simple recovery of some government plans. And still they do not tell me the publication date of the book. I cannot go on like this – I can feel my mind festering. Surely there must be someone, somewhere, in need of my help."

"Holmes, you spent three years dead," I responded. "Maybe word has not got out yet. Or maybe the criminal world has decided, with your return, to behave itself." I spoke lightly, but I knew what a torment these quiet periods were to him. Then, as if in a flash, an idea came to me. "Why do you not volunteer yourself for work?"

The look of incredulity on Holmes' face was a sight to behold. I carried on quickly. "If cases will not come to you, then choose one from the paper and engage yourself upon it without invitation. It pains me to see you in such a state of boredom. You have done it before on occasion. I know what the work means to you." With that, I threw the paper at him with an extravagant gesture. "Go to it, Holmes."

He looked at me with surprise, and then smiled. "Once again Watson, you read me well. That is in fact precisely what I have been planning to do but have dared not mention it to you for fear you would think me in some degree desperate."

"Not me, Holmes – I would never think that way." I paused. "From your demeanour I guess you already have identified a case, then?"

"Well done again, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, apparently rejuvenated and inspired. He tossed the same paper back to me. "Page three, top left column. Read it aloud."

I located the passage. "_Tragedy at Coldenhall_. Sounds dramatic."

"So it is. Read on."

"_News of a most upsetting nature has reached us of a tragedy in the quiet village of Coldenhall in Hampshire. The body of a young man, Thomas Williams, has been found in the cellar of the village public house. Williams, late of the 4__th__ Fusiliers, had but lately returned to his home village from South Africa where he saw service; but recently it was reported that he had been diagnosed with a wasting disease and was not expected long to live. Initially it was believed that he had fallen down the stairs of the cellar and broken his neck during a fit or faint induced by the disease, but recently however the manner of the finding of his body seems to indicate that the death was not so natural as first considered. _

"_This is the second death in this quiet, otherwise idyllic village, which boasts a population of merely three hundred souls. Last month local farmer Michael Kennedy was found trampled to death in the top field on his farm, with the recent inquest determining that the animals had been disturbed by some unknown influence which led to the stampede. At the inquest Sir George Coldenhall JP, Master of Colden Hall which overlooks the village and to which the village is tithed, stated that Kennedy's loss would be felt in al aspects of village life such was his contribution to the good works carried out among the poor of the parish._

"_Now it seems Sir George's magisterial skills will be required again, but this time in a much darker environment – one of possible murder. It is understood that the local constabulary are at a loss as to motive, yet even the details of why they would consider the death suspicious are being withheld at present_."

I finished reading the brief account and whistled. "They suspect murder? But who is this Williams fellow, and why should this make the national daily"

"Colonel Williams, to give him his full title, has seen active service in a number of theatres, Watson," replied Holmes, "and this business in South Africa has been, as is reported, his latest posting. I have already been in contact with Mycroft -"

"You have been busy, Holmes, for someone who cries boredom."

"The world must go on," he replied with a quick smile. "Mycroft is of the opinion that someone or something happened there which has made him ... unpopular in certain circles."

"Unpopular?"

"He evidently had a reputation. He was always somewhat hot headed, but once he was diagnosed with his disease it seems he made it his mission to clear his conscience of all manner of activities he had been engaged in. Mycroft was somewhat surprised that an old boy of Eton could have sunk so low in some of his behaviour."

"Eton? What's such a person doing in a little village like Coldenhall?"

"You read the account. He was born there. Although he has not spent much of his life there, he returned after his discharge." Holmes was silent for a moment. "I wonder if we would be welcomed if we just turned up without excuse?"

"I see no reason why the local constabulary would not be glad of some assistance – particularly if they are, as reported, at such a loss as to motive. That's a good excuse – they can't ask for any better assistance."

"It may not be murder of course."

"In which case you will undoubtedly find out the facts and set their minds at rest. And make Sir George's work easier."

Holmes smiled. "I can always rely on you to be up for it, Watson. Very well, we'll need two tickets – first class mind you – I think the nearest station is Micheldever, and then – we shall see what we shall see."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD. Other characters are mine.

**Chapter 2 – Arrival**

"Welcome to the 'Black Dog', gentlemen," said the landlord as we presented ourselves at the small bar that evening. "What names, please?"

The train journey had been most relaxing, and we were both travelling light due to the relative proximity of Coldenhall to London. Indeed, once the arrangements had been made it had been less than an hour between our discussing the case in Baker Street and boarding the train at the newly rebuilt Waterloo Station. Now after a short cart ride – at which point I think the truly rural nature of Coldenhall had been finally impressed on Holmes – and a brief reconnaissance of the village, we were ready for a meal and a roof over our heads for the night.

But one particular aspect of the visit had not so impressed me. I had expressed my concerns most strongly but I had of course ultimately been ignored.

"In the name of sanity, why?" I had asked Holmes as the train drew closer to its destination.

"It makes all sense," he had replied patiently. "I have not been summoned to help, and the local constabulary may not be as pleased to accept my help as their metropolitan cousins would be." I had smiled to myself as I recalled some of Lestrade's words in describing Holmes' interference.

"So we are to work undercover, then?"

"Well, without announcing ourselves, yes," Holmes had replied. "Later of course I will reveal myself, but to start with I think we should be two travellers, passing through, asking questions about country life – and country scandals..."

"Don't you think it might be better to work with the local constabulary?"

"They are likely to be the usual bumbling country yokels that I have experienced so many times before, I regret," Holmes had said. "I would expect to need to keep our distance from them. If there is a case to be found, I am quite capable."

"Smith," said Holmes to the landlord. "John Smith. And this is my colleague, Doctor Jones." I fought hard against the urge to express my displeasure at the charade. The landlord may, or may not, have caught a glimpse of my reaction, but hid it well.

"Smith and Jones," he said slowly, adding the names into the register. He looked up at us, and almost said something, but seemed to stop himself. "Rooms 2 and 3, gentlemen; upstairs, turn left, second and third doors on the left. Have a pleasant stay; I will ask Bobby to bring up your bags shortly."

"That won't be necessary; we have very little and what we have we can carry," replied Holmes haughtily.

"Very well, sirs. Dinner is served from six; a nice bit of forest venison tonight, and a fine log fire in the bar by which to warm yourselves."

Thank you," I replied, and we moved on to our rooms. They were comfortable enough, with a fire in the grate, and once I had unpacked and ordered breakfast I joined Holmes who was already in the nook, talking to a burly local farmer. They were in the middle of an animated conversation and I quietly joined them.

"Terrible it was," the farmer was well into his stride, encouraged by Holmes' purchase for him of a large tankard. This sat on the table before him, half empty. "Absolutely terrible. Trampled to death he was. Crushed into the ground. Poor Will Cutler found him." I realised he was talking about Kennedy. "His poor family; all alone they are now. Three young boys and his widow expecting a fourth child."

"What time of day did it occur?" asked Holmes.

"They found him early in the morning; about eight I think. Will was on his way across the field to the forge to get supplies, and he saw him lying in the middle of the field."

"Where were the cattle?"

"On the other side of the field, down by the water. Getting quite excitable, they were overdue milking."

"When were they usually milked, then?"

"An hour after daybreak at that time of year."

"So they could have turned on him if he was late?"

"They could. It's possible if they were that uncomfortable. But he was never late though."

"You're sure?"

"They were his livelihood, Mr Smith. He took care of them – like his own children. Why one was taken ill a few weeks before and – you won't believe this – he had it all arranged to take to Salisbury to the veterinary. They were the centre of his working life. I can assure you he was never late."

Holmes thought about this for a moment. "Thank you. Enjoy your drink." He gestured to me for us to go outside into the twilight of the garden, which we did. He seemed quite excited.

"First breakthrough, Watson. Always find a friendly local."

"You had a good talk, I see. But small talk, surely?"

"By no means. My new friend said some things which were most interesting about Kennedy's death."

"But I thought you were attracted by reports surrounding the death of Thomas Williams."

"All in good time." He stopped and looked over my shoulder. "We are being watched." I started to turn, but he whispered, "No. Walk."

We started walking back towards the hostelry, but our observer was upon us too quickly.

"Good evening, gentlemen." He was quiet and well spoken, an unmistakable air of authority in his voice. "May I ask what brings you to these parts?"

"You may," replied Holmes, "but first it might be thought polite to announce who is making the enquiry."

"Phillips," came the reply, and then with added emphasis, "_Constable_ Phillips. So if you please, sirs...?"

"My friend and I are seeking some peace and quiet in the country for a few days," responded Holmes. "London gets so ... tiresome in winter, and the country air is so wholesome, so I hear. My name is Smith, John Smith, and my friend Doctor Jones here was instrumental in encouraging me to take this short vacation."

"Is this true, sir?" he asked of me.

"Oh, indeed," I replied, wondering how long I could keep up the charade. "Singular air, definitely."

"Only," the policeman continued, "I saw you talking to young Ted in the bar, sir."

_Strange definition of 'young', clearly in the country,_ I thought. _He was sixty if a da_y.

"Yes, just passing the time."

"Hmm. I heard you talking to him as well."

"You do seem to notice a lot, constable."

"And I heard you taking a mighty interest in the late Mr Kennedy."

"Country tales, officer." Holmes' face was emotionless.

"So what is the interest? A man found trampled to death. Tragic, no doubt, but for someone wanting a country rest it seems a strange topic of conversation." He drew himself up to his full height. "Just a friendly warning, sir – we don't take kindly to outsiders taking an unnatural interest in our affairs. Could I suggest a different topic might make more interesting conversation?"

With that he tipped his hat to them and walked off. I waited until he was out of earshot and then let out a low whistle. "Well, Holmes, we've been here barely a couple of hours and already you have set the cat among the pigeons. Our cover is blown, surely? Why did you just not tell him who you were?"

Holmes' eye had that glint in it which I knew so well. He rubbed his hands with childlike glee. "Oh, what fun, Watson! But – no, I will not reveal us just yet. But that was a very interesting exchange, don't you think?"

"In what way – apart from making me sweat under my collar?"

"Clearly not much escapes his attention ..."

"Agreed."

"So if, as reported, the 'local constabulary' – that is, him – is at a loss, then the truth must be well hidden. Or so blindingly obvious, so familiar that it is being overlooked simply because it is as plain as the nose on a face."

"In which case you should be able to settle that account quickly."

By now we had walked back into the bar, and the man Holmes had been speaking to earlier sat beside him; perhaps, I thought, expecting another drink.

"He's a nosy so-and-so, sir, that young Phillips, isn't he?"

"He does make one feel somewhat unwelcome as a stranger to the village, yes," agreed Holmes.

"Thing is, he knew Kennedy, you see. He was quite affected by his death, sir."

"Well, I would expect so were many other people. From what I've seen, this is a close knit community. Not much goes on without everyone else knowing about it."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I'm sure there are secrets, sir ..." With this he leaned forward, so that his face was barely inches from Holmes. "_Secrets_," he emphasised.

"Secrets?" replied Holmes, glancing at me. "What do you mean? This sounds exciting."

"Deep secrets. Secrets of the soil. If you stay, you will see. Good night, sirs." He doffed his hat and left.

"Well, Watson, _secrets_." He smiled at me, the glint of excitement in his eyes. "Do you fancy investigating some secrets?"

"Clearly you do, Holmes," I replied. "But have a care, country secrets might be as mundane as who stole the milk."

"Or not. We have two unexplained deaths. Perhaps they found out one secret too many."

"That may be the case. But we are not in London now, Holmes. We can't call on Lestrade to get us out of trouble."

Holmes laughed out loud. "_Lestrade_? Getting us out of trouble? Since when?"

"Just making the point, Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: ACD owns the Holmes brothers and Watson. Other characters are mine.

**Chapter 3 – The Magistrate**

"So where to start, Holmes?" I asked at breakfast the following morning. I had slept well, surprisingly so, for I had fully expected the bed to be hard and the sheets full of starch. But it was not so, and the country air that greeted me as I opened the window at first light had tasted like a dream from ambrosia. But now, washed and dressed, I was fully ready for whatever Holmes had planned for the day ahead.

"We start at the top," he replied. "With Sir George, who acts if I recall correctly as the Magistrate in matters of law hereabouts."

"Of course you recall correctly," I snorted, as the breakfast things arrived – enormous rolls, as big a slice of cheese as I had ever seen, bacon, eggs and a flask of hot tea, all served by the very helpful landlord, who we now knew to be a gentleman going by the name of Robert Parsons. We thanked him, and spent a few moments in small talk comparing the clean country air with the fumes of the city from which we had so eagerly escaped. He proposed to leave us, and in closing recommended the local church as a pleasant site to visit.

"Very helpful, these country folk," smiled Holmes. "Now, as to what the plan is ... we need to speak to Sir George. I have already telegraphed Mycroft to see what records he can dig out of the two inquests, but that will take some time ..." He looked at his watch. "I wonder whether he is even out of bed yet?" he mused to himself. Then to me, "You slept late, my friend."

"Don't you ever take a day off? Have a lie in?"

"Not when there is work to be done," he replied. "Now, how to see Sir George..?"

"You could always just turn up on his doorstep," I laughed, "just like you've turned up at the village. You're making quite a habit."

"One must have one's fun," he smiled. "But I need an excuse." He thought for a moment. "I am at a loss. Let's see this wonderful church our host recommended. I might get some illumination – and we are supposed to be tourists after all. We'd better start playing the part."

"Indeed, Holmes. We only took an hour to arouse the interest of the constabulary, after all."

Breakfast completed, we returned briefly to our rooms, ad then met up at the front door, before continuing up the narrow lane to the church at the edge of the village.

And it did appear to be worthy of the recommendation. The building had avoided the worst architectural damage caused by the recent wave of 'improvements' which had swept the country in the name of modernisation; I am no Luddite but some of the work carried out to some of the buildings I knew from my youth had caused me to feel some regret that the march of progress was sweeping all before it. Here at least was a building which was clearly loved, well cared for and much cherished by its local community. The well tended path lead through the small cemetery which was filled with dozens of lovingly tended graves, tidily arranged in neat rows and containing one of the largest yew trees I had ever seen.

Holmes was half way along the path towards the church door when he stopped and looked over to the left. Following his gaze I saw a single figure sitting beside one of the graves, and much to my embarrassment I realised that Holmes was making his way over to the figure. "Holmes, stop," I whispered, but too late.

"Good morning," said Holmes to the man sitting beside the grave. "The man got up and glared at Holmes.

"Do you mind?" he said. "This is a graveyard, you know. Can one not be left alone in peace?"

"My apology," replied Holmes quickly, "but I was taking in the beauty of the situation and wondered whether you were in a position to explain some of the details of the locality to me."

"And you are..?"

"Smith, John Smith, and this is my colleague Doctor Jones."

We shook hands. "George Coldenhall," he introduced himself, and Holmes shot me a triumphant glance.

"I have heard of you," said Holmes. "You were recently mentioned in the paper if I recall. You are the local JP, yes?"

"Being Master of the Hall means you are also the local Magistrate," replied Sir George. _How does he do it_, I thought. _Is it just luck or did he know all the time who it was?_ I considered the evidence – and concluded on the side of luck.

"I am sorry if we interrupted you," I said. "This is a special place, clearly."

Sir George pointed to the gravestone, upon which two names were inscribed. "Elizabeth, my late wife, and Samuel, my son," he said. "They died twenty years ago, but I visit every day if I can."

"Some sort of accident?" I continued, wondering why mother and son died in the same time frame. I saw the look of pain in Sir George's eyes, and quickly apologised for my impertinence.

"No," said Sir George sadly. "My son committed suicide whilst at school; his death broke my wife's heart, and she died three months later."

An awkward silence fell between them, broken at last by Holmes. "A wonderful situation, though."

Sir George seemed to collect himself. "The church is over eight hundred years old, and has been tied to the Hall for all that time. The Hall has been rebuilt over the years, but the church has remained steadfast in the community, at its heart."

"You live in the Hall alone?" Holmes asked.

"Good heavens, no!" exclaimed Sir George. "I have a full household, and people to help me with my duties. Running the estate carries many responsibilities. I may be alone in life but I am not alone in work."

"I would dearly like to see the Hall," said Holmes. Sir George smiled benignly. You could almost see the thoughts written on his face. _This new breed of tourists, getting in the way, making themselves trouble. _

"Of course. I am finished here. Why not join me for luncheon?"

We gratefully accepted his offer, and walked back up the lane until, rounding a last corner, we saw the imposing bulk of Colden Hall for the first time. It was indeed an impressive building, two wings framing the central palladium, with an imposing gateway which framed the whole to good effect.

We reached the door which opened as we approached. Sir George thanked his butler who had been on the lookout for his return, and within a few minutes we were settled in the drawing room with a brandy at hand. For all the fine weather, it was still quite cold, and we welcomed the fire burning in the enormous grate which almost filled one entire side of the magnificent room.

"So what brings you here?" asked Sir George after we had eaten.

"A change of air," replied Holmes. "Sometimes the city is so ... crowded. The open space of the countryside appeals."

"Tell that to those who work here," smiled Sir George. "It is a hard life on the land, and although I do what I can to make sure those in my charge are well cared for, tragedies happen. Sickness comes, death can stalk even the youngest member of a family. I try to play my part in philanthropic acts, but I cannot extend unlimited charity to the whole village."

"It is a great responsibility."

"But on the whole enjoyable. Although it is never easy to make ends meet. Every year seems to bring a new tax, and new duty to pay. My father was able to live on an income from the estate of five thousand a year. I am struggling on eight."

Holmes whistled. "Where does it all go?"

"Wars, for one thing!" laughed Sir George. "With an Empire to support, you can't expect it to come cheap. Not in money, and not in lives either. Some people come back and even though they are uninjured physically, they can be changed mentally. You said earlier, Mr Smith, that you had read my name in the paper?" Holmes nodded. "Well you may recall that the context of that was the death of Tom Williams, a fine soldier of the Fourth. He came back from Africa – broken."

"How so?"

"He was born and raised here, you know. He moved away in his youth, his father was posted to Ireland; but after serving in the colonies he returned here. Those who knew him as a boy, said that the man was completely different from the boy."

"You expect that, though, surely?" I asked.

"Maybe. But such a warm, friendly, open child ... came back closed, quiet, private. Would barely speak to a soul. 'Antisocial' they called him. Shouted at any of the villagers who spoke to him. He became quite an outsider."

"And he died in the very place we are staying, I understand," said Holmes carefully.

"The 'Black Dog', yes. Fell down the stairs, late one evening after closing," he replied. "He wasn't well, and I found that he had in all likelihood suffered a fit or a blackout which had caused his fall. Broke his neck, died instantly."

"Yet the police have their doubts?"

The atmosphere changed immediately. "Young Phillips doesn't know his place," he spat. "He's not been here long and already thinks he knows better than all of us who've been here for years."

"Why did he think that way?"

"You'll have to ask him," was the cold reply. "Evidently he was unconvinced by the reasons given for Williams being there at that time of night."

"Which were..?"

"The only thing stored in the cellar was the drink supplies – all the beer and other strong drink."

"And...?"

"Williams was reportedly teetotal."

Holmes paused and thought on this for a moment. "Interesting. So Phillips considers ... what? There could be a perfectly natural explanation for his going there."

"All that is down there is the drink," repeated Sir George. "I visited the site of the death to see for myself. But I didn't hold with his theory."

"Theory?"

"That the only reason he would have gone there was by invitation – to meet someone."

"I suppose that is possible."

"And that that person killed him."

"Why? What grounds? A returning soldier, inhospitable – he's not going to upset anyone is he?" I asked.

"As I said, maybe you'd best ask Phillips yourselves," replied Sir George. He looked at his watch. "Well gentlemen, it has been interesting talking to you. Tourists, you say..." he paused, weighing his words. "I hope you are. You will find that too much enquiry does not go down well in these parts. We're quite old fashioned. And now I am afraid I must be to business."

Our goodbyes exchanged, we made our way steadily back to the Black Dog in time for afternoon tea, taking in some of the sights. Holmes seemed genuinely relaxed and the walk was a slow one. He spoke little, and was clearly rehearsing what he had learned so far.

On our arrival the landlord, Parsons, greeted us with the news that Phillips had called on them. He had left a letter which he handed over to me. "He asked me to give this to you, specifically, Doctor," he said, winking surreptitiously.

We sat in a nook by the fire. "Well, Holmes," I said quietly, Sir George said we should see him." I opened the letter and whistled, before handing it to Holmes. His left eyebrow raised as he read the contents.

_I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. COME AND SEE ME IMMEDIATELY._

"So the cover is blown, then!" I said to Holmes.

"So it would seem," he replied.

We had a leisurely tea, and made our way to the Police House. Phillips opened the door to our knock, and he ushered us in. He did not look pleased.

"I will come straight to the point," he said, "and I am not pleased. I do not like being taken for a fool." Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Phillips interrupted. "I have no quarrel with you, sir, but with the Doctor here I am most upset ..."

I was at a loss as to where this was leading, but did not have to wait long.

"You think you can pull the wool over my eyes, but I have done my research, I have asked my questions," he said. "I do not like being made a fool of, and I don't like to think of my friends and neighbours being made fools of either."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you do," he replied. "Doctor Conan Doyle."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: as usual, the Holmes brothers and Watson are the creations of ACD. Of course ACD himself never got himself involved in tales such as this. But the other characters are mine.

**Chapter 4 – Identity**

I pride myself on being able to defend myself perfectly well, both physically and verbally, but Phillips' contention silenced me for a good few seconds. I could feel Holmes' incredulous gaze boring into the side of my head as I struggled to find the right words. In the end, my response was somewhat trite, I felt, but given the circumstances I considered I was allowed, on this occasion, to be slightly less guarded than I would normally present.

"What are you talking about, you fool?"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor?" exclaimed the policeman. "Just because I have uncovered your identity there is no need for abuse. I am an officer of the law, properly appointed, so have a care, sir."

"I'm sorry, but, I am afraid to say, you have made a grave mistake."

"Oh, no, it is no good trying to evade the matter Doctor," he continued. "You are here to gain inside information for one of your detective fictions."

I was at a complete loss. I looked to Holmes for guidance, but was disappointed to see he was most highly amused, and would be of no help. I was clearly on my own.

"I am NOT Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle," I said slowly, emphasising each word carefully and clearly. "You have made a mistake."

"You are, sir, and you are here to gain information which will appear at some point in one of your fictions," he repeated. "I read them avidly, and have always been most taken by the reality of many of the situations Holmes and his associate Watson find themselves in. Clearly you do your research very well, and I do congratulate you on your story telling. Quite evocative of the manner in which cases are solved these days. Many are quite brilliant."

"But..." I started.

"I have in fact used many of your techniques in my own investigations," he continued. "In fact, in the privacy of these four walls, I would have you know that I model myself on your Holmes character. Not completely, of course ... I find his arrogance and the way he belittles other people quite upsetting, and if I may be so bold I think you have made the character too flawed and unlovable; but in method and manner I do try to follow the example you have created. I am sure my Metropolitan colleagues have much admiration for you."

I glanced at Holmes, whose knuckles were now white as he gripped the back of the seat against which he stood. I decided that now was the time to resolve the confusion. "I repeat, I am not Conan Doyle," I stated, probably unnecessarily clearly. I was becoming quite upset with the intransigence of the policeman whom I now considered to be a yokel of the lowest order. "I am, in fact ..."

Holmes interrupted. "Oh, come, Doctor, perhaps it is best that we are honest. You are of course correct, Phillips; Doctor Conan Doyle here likes to travel incognito and does sometimes get most exercised when, as has happened here, his disguise is compromised. I assume, of course, that we can trust you to continue to honour his alias?"

The change in Phillips' manner was immediate and remarkable. His chest swelled with pride and his face flushed. "Of course, you can rely on me," he said. "To think, I will be helping the great Doctor Conan Doyle in creating another tale for an edition of the _Strand_. You understand, of course, that I cannot involve you too greatly in my police work, but perhaps if you could – only perhaps, mind you – include me in the story - under another name of course, I would not wish my superiors to find how I had assisted – then I think we can work together to great effect."

I must admit, I was most taken aback at Holmes' line of reasoning. All sorts of questions were running through my mind, but I was not to be allowed to communicate them. For the change in Phillips' behaviour was undoubtedly having the required effect; I could see that here would be a useful ally and gatherer of information.

"That is well," replied Holmes, "since what the good Doctor does not want revealed is that although he is the august chronicler of the fictional detective and his trusty companion, it is I who actually put them into a storyline that could be understood by the average reader. The doctor is, you understand, a man of considerable learning, and sometimes his natural literary style – well let us just say that without me the fictions would not be as popular or accessible. He will take the necessary notes in his notebook..." These last words he emphasised to me and I duly took out my trusty book and pencil, "... and you can help us create such a tale that will mean that you will, albeit under an alias, live on for ever as a great policeman."

"Very good sir, I cannot bear a lack of humility. Now Inspector Lestrade, he can have his name highlighted if he so wishes, and Mr Gregson too, but as for me, that's enough. I keep fact from fiction. Quite dangerous if you ask me, a real-life character playing a role in a fictional story. But, enough of that, so please ... what do you want to know?"

"Tell us about Williams."

"In particular, any aspect that interests you?"

"The paper said that you had reservations about the result of the Inquest."

"I believe that Sir George has overlooked the fact that Williams had no reason to be where he was that night. I still believe he was lured there and murdered."

"But there must always be a motive."

"His return from South Africa started a chain of events."

Holmes sat down at the chair opposite the office desk, and leaned forward. "Tell me."

"Evidently he had had some serious experiences on duty. More than once his comrades were killed standing next to him, yet he escaped unscathed. I spoke to him on more than one occasion since he came back last year. I firmly believe he carried a great guilt at coming back uninjured whilst so many of his contemporaries had perished."

"But feeling guilty doesn't lead to murder, surely?" Holmes looked to me to ensure I was taking notes.

"Ah, but he started on some sort of righteous crusade to undo all the wrongs he had committed."

"Wrongs?"

"He thought that he had done some things of which he was not proud. He didn't go into a lot of detail with me – only to say that it was he who as a child in the village had stolen Mrs Gribbons' tablecloth – but I had the impression that he was going to try to confess to those wrongs to the people involved, and make amends where he could. At least, that's the spirit of what he told me."

"What did you say?"

"In reply? I am ashamed to say, now that I know how things turned out, that I told him not to bother. I told him that no-one would be interested in righting any of his minor misdemeanours, certainly not the police. I gave him short shrift, I am afraid."

"But you think that he might have carried on doing so, and in the process upset someone?"

"I do; it is the only thing I could think of which could have caused him to be where he was. He was teetotal, you see, and yet he was in the drink store. Nothing but the store of alcoholic drinks for the public house. He would not normally have even dreamed of being in a place like that."

"I understand he was carrying out this crusade, as you put it, as a result of his illness?"

"I believe that he felt he was driven by that need, yes. To right those wrongs before he was taken from this mortal life. He did not take my advice. And I feel that as a result I am in some way responsible for his death."

This took me by surprise. "How so?" I interjected.

"Because I should have taken more notice of what he was saying. I should have listened to him more. I should have been there for him."

This was a side of the man I had not expected, nor Holmes, clearly. "You cannot blame yourself," said Holmes comfortingly. "If he was determined to do this thing, nothing would have stopped him."

"Perhaps. But surely someone must have taken a dislike to what he was saying."

"But what could possibly be of such gravity that would lead to his being silenced? I do think you are putting more store to his quest than you should." Holmes had clearly hit a nerve.

Phillips went to the door. "Don't you think I know that? But what other explanation can there be?"

"An accident? He fell down the stairs? Sir George found correctly at the Inquest?" I postulated.

"And that, Doctor, is what might make this a great story, if we can reach a proper conclusion," the policeman replied. "I can see that Mr Smith means when he says it is he who guides you in making your stories. But alas I have other duties, so I must ask you to be on your way. But be assured, I am most grateful for the chance to work with you on this matter. I feel as though the true solution of this situation may be achieved. We will remain in contact."

"Perhaps you are right," said Holmes, rising and encouraging me to the door. "We will take our leave, but will keep in touch."

With that we left the Police house. When we were some way distant, Holmes stopped and looked around to ensure no-one was about. And then exploded in laughter.

"Oh, Watson!" he was almost crying with the exertion of his humour. "We are indeed a story within a story. To think that you of all people should be confused with your publishing agent ..."

"I do not think it amusing in the same way you do, clearly," I responded. "Think of what you are saying. We are fictional characters."

"A tribute to your writing, my good fellow," he replied, at last in control of his amusement.

"But what made you say I was Doyle?" I asked.

"Well you can see it had the desired effect, surely? He could be useful, in a simple way. A brainless fool, but also a gatherer of information. Strip out the dross of his interpretation, look at the facts, clear the lumber, and he might be worth entertaining as an insider in this community."

"No, I meant - well, surely you can see the position you've put me in?"

"You will have to explain, I am afraid."

"What if Doyle actually comes here?"

Holmes seemed genuinely shocked, but not for the reason I was expecting.

"Here!" he exclaimed. "To this backwater? Why on earth would he come within ten miles of a place like this?"

"Or his picture might be seen."

"You bear a passing likeness," replied Holmes. "And you are of course in disguise, so even if a picture was available you could explain the superficial differences." I could see the mirth in Holmes' eyes, and decided not to pursue that aspect of the conversation any further.

We had by this time reached our lodgings and settled down in our familiar nook next to the fireplace for a refreshing drink. We had barely started when a young man came over to us and asked whether he could sit at our table. Holmes impatiently indicated him to sit. He introduced himself as William Taylor, a farm hand from Upper Brook Farm on the edge of the village.

"Are you pollis?" he asked.

"No, we are not the police," I assured him. "We just like investigating unusual things that the police don't know what to do with."

Taylor thought for a moment. "I heard you last night. Talking."

Holmes was getting quickly impatient. "Yes, we were talking; about many things."

"About Mister Kennedy."

"Yes, we were," I encouraged.

"I saw him killed."

Holmes leaned forward so quickly he almost knocked over the brandy. "You saw him trampled by the cattle?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Well...?"

"I saw him killed by the man."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: The Holmes brothers and Watson belong to ACD. Other characters are mine.

**Chapter 5 – Witness**

Holmes sat bolt upright. "A man? You are sure?"

"No, I suppose ..."

"Well, what? Was it a man or not? Or was it a sheep?" he said sarcastically. "And why haven't you told the police this information?"

I leant across to Holmes to calm the situation. "Our friend is somewhat – delicate," I whispered to him. "Be steady."

Holmes glared at Taylor, but with an effort of will contained himself. "I am sorry. Please, continue."

"I'm sorry, sir," continued Taylor. "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure whether it was a man or a woman. Not a sheep, though..."

Holmes laughed. "My little joke," he replied.

Taylor looked at him as though summing up this strange person. He sighed.

"I was up in top field, but I shouldn't have been there," he replied. "Now, you are not pollis, you promise?"

"We have already given you that assurance," I repeated.

"Times are hard," continued Taylor. "There's not much money, and my old man is in Debtor's Hall." Holmes looked at him quizzically. "Prison," he said to clarify. "He fell behind with the rent. So – well, I have to make ends meet for the family, don't I?"

A light dawned on me. I leaned forward and spoke quietly so that my words could be heard by no-one outside our immediate table. "You were poaching, weren't you?" Taylor nodded in reply. "So," I continued, looking at Holmes, "you couldn't say anything to Constable Phillips could you?" Taylor shook his head in reply.

Holmes sat back in his chair and drank slowly from his glass, pondering what he had heard. "We will put aside your crime for the moment, then, in the context of uncovering the solution to an even greater one – perhaps. So, please, describe exactly what you saw." He closed his eyes to concentrate on Taylor's words.

"I was up in top field ..."

His eyes snapped open. "Time?"

"About five in the morning. About an hour before milking. I knew Mr Kennedy would be in the area but the rabbits are really tasty up there, so I thought I could avoid him by staying in the edge of the woods. When Mr Kennedy came I hid deeper in the woods, crouching down like in the undergrowth."

"Did you have a clear view? How far away was this from you?" asked Holmes.

"Couple of hundred yards."

"Hmm. Not a very clear view, then."

"It was dark, but clear enough in the late moon to see it was Mr Kennedy. But then behind him was another person. I don't know if it was a man or lady, but the way they walked I'd say it was a man. I noticed them since it was so early. Not many people about – legitimate like," he smiled.

"Leave the detection to me and stick to the facts. Was this other person walking with him?"

"No, sir, they was coming up the lane as though trying to catch him up. But they definitely knew each other."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because when Mr Kennedy caught sight of whoever it was, he paused to let the other one catch up with him."

"Interesting. So it could be safely assumed that Kennedy knew this person. For how long did they speak?"

"A few minutes."

"Was the conversation animated?" Holmes asked. Taylor looked blank. "Did either of them appear to lose their temper?" I explained. Holmes glared at me, but in good nature.

"Bless you, sir, in no way, they seemed in good spirit all the time they spoke, until the end."

"Did you hear any of what they said?" asked Holmes.

"Not a word."

Holmes sighed. "Very well. Why do you say, 'until the end'?"

"Well, right at the end like, this other person seemed to become a bit impatient with Mr Kennedy. I saw Mr Kennedy laugh – laugh at this other person, I think – and he turned his back and started walking off. Well, he was a bit late to get to the cows, wasn't he?"

"And ...?" Holmes was being majestically patient.

"The other person seems as though he's going to go back. He starts walking off back the way he came, but then turns and picks up a big stick. Mr Kennedy was a good few yards ahead of him by this time, almost to the gate, but didn't see the other turn and follow him. When the other person caught up with him they catch hold of Mr Kennedy's arm. Mr Kennedy swings round and starts shouting – but then I see this other person is hitting Mr Kennedy with the stick." He paused as though the recollection was painful. "And he keeps hitting Mr Kennedy, again and again, until Mr Kennedy has fallen down and is lying still."

I whistled under my breath. "So it was murder, then..."

"Or manslaughter," replied Holmes. "Heat of the moment? But how could Sir George miss such injuries? They're not caused by cattle."

"Ah, not then, sir," interrupted Taylor, "but then this other person, whoever they was, pulls Mr Kennedy across a little way so that he's lying in the gate of the field. Then they goes down to where the cattle are waiting and gets them up the field. In and out of the field he brings them, backwards and forwards, between the two top fields; and every time they goes in or out of the field through the gate..."

"They are trampling the body under foot," I completed. Taylor nodded.

"Murder, then," sighed Holmes. He seemed quite pleased.

Taylor rose to leave. "Where are you going?" said Holmes sharply.

"I have told you all I need to," Taylor replied quietly. "You know where you can find me."

"But..." I started.

"I have told you everything I saw," said Taylor, "and that may be too much, eh? That person is out there. I don't want to be their next victim."

"What do you mean?" asked Holmes, genuinely perplexed.

"I mean," said Taylor, "that there is someone out there who has killed Mr Kennedy and for all I know he is round here. What I saw makes me feel unsafe."

"But surely you would recognise him or her again?" I said.

"No, I'm not sure I would," he replied.

"We will keep you safe, Mister Taylor" replied Holmes. I looked at him, my expression hopefully communicating my thoughts. _How?_

"Sorry, sir, and bless you, you are honest good men; but I will take my leave. You know where you can find me," he repeated, and wishing them goodnight, left the Inn and stole into the night. Holmes and I sat quietly, thinking through what we had heard. Finally Holmes came to a decision. He went over to the barman.

"The Post Office, they would tell me if I had received a communication in reply to the telegraph I sent this morning?" he asked.

"Most certainly. Send it here for you, they would. But, of course, those newfangled contraptions, they're always going wrong, aren't they?"

"Meaning...?"

"Broken it is. Postmaster was in here earlier, sinking his sorrows, complaining. Been broken all day."

Holmes and I left the bar and made our way towards our rooms, but Holmes beckoned me into his.

"Before we retire," he said, "I have some concerns."

"Concerns, Holmes?"

"Word gets round a village like this very quickly. I will wager that Taylor's conversation with us will become known. I agree that he may well be in danger."

"Surely you don't buy his concerns?"

"Until I have a reply from Mycroft, I do not know either way. You can see that surely?"

"You are as usual a model of reservation."

"I am being honest."

"So how do you see it so far?"

"Doubtless as you see it yourself, Watson. We have a witness to a murder. It is entirely possible that the Coroner – especially if they were from a country practise – would not pick up the injuries of a beating as severe as our friend Mr Taylor reported if the body had then been severely trampled by the herd of cattle. So that much of the story holds up."

"I can feel a 'but' coming," I said.

"But, do we trust Taylor's word?"

"I must admit to a similar reservation. He is a felon, albeit poaching in such a situation is not without sympathy."

"The law is the law, Watson. I am surprised at you," he replied, but I could see the glint of mirth in his eye. "I need Mycroft's information. I can't do any more until I have it. If the telegraph is broken, you'll have to go to London now and get it from him."

"At this time of night?"

"It's only an hour on the train."

I knew what I would find, but to show willing I went to my room and brought back my Bradshaw. Finding the relevant timetable, I ran my finger across the columns, and then showed Holmes. "Last train has just gone. This is the country, Holmes."

Muttering under his breath about the remoteness of the village despite being only an hour from the metropolis by train, Holmes got up and paced about the room, ending up at the window. He seemed far away in his thoughts, and stayed that way for a few minutes looking out at the inky blackness. I was about to take my leave and retire when he turned to me.

"Very well, if such frustrations are going to be part of the investigation, so be it. Tomorrow we will travel back to London, collect the information from Mycroft, and consider our next move."

"For a case which you have volunteered yourself for, without payment or hope of such, you are becoming very involved Holmes."

"It is refreshing, Watson. I am starting to enjoy myself. Early start tomorrow. Goodnight."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: the Holmes brothers and Watson, belong to ACD; the rest are mine.

**Chapter 6 - Investigation**

I woke the next morning to the curtains in my room being thrown back to let in the early dawn light. Holmes had entered through the communicating door in a state of high excitement. Blearily I rubbed my eyes.

"What is the matter, Holmes?"

"The telegraph has been fixed, Watson. And our friendly host has just had delivered the reply from Mycroft."

I sat up. "And..?"

"I need to go to London, I fear," replied Holmes. "There are elements in the communication which raise further questions."

I got out of bed. "Wait for me, then, Holmes. I will be ready immediately."

He smiled with that irritating grin which I knew meant that I was to be given another job to do 'in the meantime'. Sure enough, he said, "No, Watson, I am afraid that there are some loose ends to be tied up here as well. I want you to have another word with Mr Taylor; then see if you can get another interview with Sir George. I think you will find him in the churchyard early this afternoon – I'll wager it is a regular pattern with him."

I sighed. "Very well. What am I looking for?"

"Everything and anything," he replied cryptically. Seeing my questioning look, he continued, "I will do the detection, Watson. I just want you to gather information – as much as you can. Just mingle with the villagers. You are supposed to be a famous dignitary after all."

"That is a secret, though, only Constable Phillips is aware – or should I say, mistakenly aware."

He smiled again. "I think, Watson, that in a village like this, something sworn to secrecy will not long be secret." He went to the door, and turned back to me. "I should be back this evening I hope," he said. "Please try to keep out of trouble." Then he was gone.

I did not rush down to breakfast; in fact it was the wrong side of ten o'clock before I left the Inn and made my way down the lane towards Upper Brook Farm. I had not reached there however when I saw what I thought initially was a dumped pile of clothing in the long grass beside the lane. But as I got closer I saw a slight movement and a groan. With a shock I realised that it was a person, and instinctively knew who it was. I ran across to where he lay.

Taylor was lying face down on the edge of the roadside ditch; his face was bloodied, and his right eye swollen so badly he could not open it. His right shoulder was clearly dislocated. As I started to tend to him he whimpered in pain. "This is … all your fault ..."

"Hush, man," I told him, looking around to see if the assailant was nearby. "That's rubbish."

"I told you not to tell anyone."

"I swear we did not. We must have been overheard."

He coughed, and blood came to his lips. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"I am a doctor," I replied. "I just need to get you back to the Inn..."

"No! To the farm. Help me get up."

"I really don't think that's a good idea..."

"Then I won't tell you who did this."

"Wait, then, whilst I at least attend to your arm." He nodded and I spent the next few minutes lashing the limb against his body to hold it in a relatively comfortable position. At last I helped him gingerly to his feet. He stood before me, bruised and filthy, but clearly not on the point of death.

"This way," he said, and led us onwards along the lane until after some half a mile we saw buildings in the trees off to the left for which we turned down an unmade earth track.

Upper Brook Farm was one of those places which if you did not know you were in the nineteenth century, would convince you of a date at least three hundred years earlier. Every possible amenity to modern life was missing, but not companionship; as we approached the farmhouse a young woman ran out to greet us. Seeing Taylor she screamed, but I reassured her that he was safe and we proceeded into the kitchen.

"My sister, Louise," he gasped as we sat him down in front of the fire. She smiled at me, a warm welcoming smile that spoke of thanks for helping her brother. "Thank you, Sir, for helping him." She turned to Taylor. "Now our Billy, what has you bin doin' now, getting yourself all messed up like this? Someone say summat about pa again?"

Taylor smiled at her, and reached out to hold her hand. "No," he whispered. "I was having a word with this gentleman and his friend last night and on the way back I was jumped."

"You said you knew who it was," I reminded him.

"Miles Furlingstone."

"It doesn't mean anything to me I'm afraid."

"Sir George's second footman," he explained. "Always does fancy himself. Always picking fights. Don't know why Sir George keeps him on. Nothing but trouble."

"Now, then, don't you fret yourself," said his sister. "The little ones will be home soon, and you don't want to have them upset. You go and get cleaned up."

"Not yet," I said. "Your shoulder. If children are coming I need to reset it now."

Taylor looked at he apprehensively, then nodded. "Go on, then."

"It will hurt."

"I know. Get on with it."

The process of relocating his shoulder was carried out quickly, and soon he was removed to the bedroom to have a wash and put new clothes on. Whilst he was absent, I asked his sister about the footman Furlingstone.

"Oh, he's not so bad really," she replied. "A bit of a bully; but if you has a pretty face..." She smiled that smile again. "Well, he's putty isn't he?"

I smiled. "You have the measure of him, clearly. But it is interesting why Sir George keeps him if he does indeed cause the trouble your brother says he does."

"It's six of one and half a dozen of the other if you ask me," she said. "If you expect someone to be trouble then they will be, won't they?"

"Why do you think he might have attacked your brother?"

"We are not a rich family, sir. Our 'pa is in Debtor's Prison at the moment. So we have to get money from somewhere, don't we? So Mr Furlingstone, well he lends people a few bob, see? But if you fall behind..." Her voice petered out.

I nodded. "Your brother said nothing of that aspect of their relationship."

"We have some pride."

At that moment Taylor rejoined us, clean and washed again, although his eye was still shut and the scratches from being dumped in the ditch were still on his face. "Thank you for your help, sir," he said. "I hear the little ones outside coming home, so it might be best if you leave us now."

I agreed and bade them both good day, and as the children ran into the farmyard I made my leave. In the lane outside the farm I paused and jotted down the conversation in my notebook so that I could report the details to Holmes on his return.

The unexpected turn of events had eaten up the morning and early afternoon, so remembering Holmes' words I made my way to the church and sure enough, sitting next to the grave was Sir George. I respectfully joined him.

"Ah, our illustrious visitor," he said, slightly coldly.

"I am sorry?"

"I understand from Constable Phillips that you wish to remain incognito."

"That would be useful, yes." I considered it best to continue the charade until such time as Holmes advised otherwise.

"It might have been better to tell me at the start," he continued gruffly.

"We did not consider it appropriate."

"So you say. Good manners, I call it. Well, what do you want? This isn't a chance meeting I'll wager."

"I have just come from Upper Brook Farm."

"What of it?"

"Do you know William Taylor?"

"Yes, although I'm on the verge of throwing them out. One more missed rent and that's it."

"He was attacked last night."

Sir George met my eyes steadily. "That is .. unfortunate. It seems there may be plenty for you to write about, doctor. Look, just a word of advice. This is not London. Things are done differently here. You might not understand, but believe me it works."

"He has a complaint against one of your staff."

"Furlingstone?"

I could not conceal my surprise. "How did you know?"

"Those two haven't seen eye to eye for years," he laughed. "Even at school they were at each others' throats. Hated each other. I bet he told you Furlingstone had lent him money didn't he?"

"Well, yes he did as a matter of fact."

"I suggest you check your facts. Furlingstone is a character, as we say around here, but he isn't a lender or a bailiff."

"How can you be sure?"

"I am also the bank around here," he replied. My expression must have shown my puzzlement. "This is a poor community," he said in explanation. "I try to help as far as I am able. I look after the villagers' money – any that they try to save – and their pay comes out of my pocket too. This is a tied village, Doctor; that means that all the money in it either comes from me, to me or passes through me in some way or other. I can tell you assuredly that Furlingstone has not lent money to Taylor. I would know."

"But if Furlingstone had his own money?"

"He hasn't. Poor as a church mouse."

"So Taylor is lying?"

"That's the measure of it, yes. He's going the same way as his father; drinking the money, or spending it on unnecessary fripperies – did you know he wants that sister of his, that Louise, to go to London and have an education? Ridiculous."

"I see nothing wrong with that, Sir George."

"Everyone has their place, Doctor. In this village at least. Everyone knows where they stand and what is expected of them. His sister will go into service at the Hall when the time comes. Like all the others."

I was starting to realise that my initial liking for this man was waning. I tried to remind myself that he had experienced such tragedy that would drive many lesser men mad with grief, but as he stood before me I thought him heartless. After a moment I decided there was nothing more to be gained from pursuing the enquiry regarding Taylor.

"You said yesterday that Phillips thought Williams had no reason to be where he was the night he died."

"Yes, that is my belief, and that is what I recorded at the Inquest," he replied. "Williams came back from Africa and immediately started stirring things up, trying to mend the wrongs he thought he had done. He came to see me; I told him in no uncertain terms to stop what he was doing and just get on with settling his life out – what was left of it."

"How long was it considered he had before the illness took him?"

"A year at the most. But he died eight months after his return from Africa. He must have swooned and fallen."

"Yes, so you say, but why was he there?"

"I have had enough of this," replied Sir George. "You have been speaking to Phillips too long. Did you know he is moving from here?"

"No. Where to?"

"Devon."

I thought to myself, _and I'll wager you have had a hand in that._

"You don't like him, do you?"

"I expect the old ways to continue. My family has tended this acre of England for hundreds of years. All has continued smoothly for years, but now with Phillips there are all sorts of claims being made."

"About Williams."

"And Kennedy."

"What did he say about Kennedy?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Doctor," he replied coldly. "Is this for your next book? Your next Sherlock Holmes adventure? Well let me tell you, you'll have no more from me. Please, leave me to my thoughts, sir."

With that he turned his back on me and pointedly started to tend the grave of his wife and son. Bemused and confused, I wondered what to do next, but after a few moments decided to take my leave. Wishing him good day, I returned down the lane into the village to be met by Holmes at the door of the Inn. His face said it all.

"A most productive time in London, Watson," he smiled. "Now, to our rooms and tell me what you have discovered."

Half an hour later found us in our familiar nook in the bar to which we had become accustomed. Holmes was deep in thought from what I had told him.

"So, Taylor apparently has a grudge against this Furlingstone. Who Sir George says is a trustworthy fellow, more than Taylor certainly?" I nodded in affirmation. "And yet Sir George is the person who could have saved his father from Prison."

"Yes, but that is the way of things around here, as he reminded me forcefully," I replied. "He is in effect the 'Lord of the Manor', Holmes. His word goes. He can't show favour but neither can he show weakness where that is not deserved."

"Perhaps, and the responsibilities he carries are heavy," mused Holmes.

"What of your findings, Holmes," I asked eagerly. I could not help but feel that my day's work had been of little consequence.

"A couple of interesting pieces of information," he replied. "The most significant of which was that both Williams and Kennedy are old boys of Eton."

"I can understand Kennedy, but how on earth could someone like Williams' family afford sending him there?"

"Oh, Watson, just because a man chooses to farm doesn't make him a pauper!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I agree, but for an Eton-educated man life on a village farm in Hampshire is not what one would expect."

"Which leaves what the admirably misnamed 'young' Ted said on our first night here, Watson."

"I'm sorry, Holmes. Remind me."

"_Secrets_."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson belong to ACD of course. Other characters are my own.

**Chapter 7 – The Web**

I woke the next morning to find Holmes' room vacant. There was no note, which was not unusual, so I surmised that he would eventually turn up and had plans of his own.

But as the day went on I started to become more concerned. What if some dreadful accident had befallen him? What if he had fallen into the tender care of Mr Furlingstone? These and many other thoughts kept my mind busy until luncheon, but after I had eaten I determined to seek him out.

I went up the lane towards the church and sure enough Sir George was tending the grave of his son and wife. After our rather frosty conversation the day before I extended him a minimum of courtesy, but he did seem more troubled than usual. On closer, covert inspection I noted the tears running down his cheeks, and decided to speak more fully.

"Sir George, can I help? Is something wrong?"

"No," he replied. It is the anniversary of her death." He pointed to the white stone, and sure enough I noted Elizabeth Coldenhall's name and the date, exactly twenty years ago to the day.

"I am sorry," I mumbled. "It is hard to lose the one you love." He looked at me, seemingly not knowing how to respond. "I speak from experience," I continued quickly. "My own dear wife Mary died three years ago nearly. The wound is still raw."

"Let me tell you, then," he replied, "that even after twenty years that wound does not heal."

"I can well imagine."

"No, you cannot – yet," he retorted, quite rightly I thought. What an unfeeling thing for me to say!

"Anyway, too much is going on at the Hall," he continued. "Some Irishman has turned up out of the blue, and my housekeeper Mrs Cullen has taken to him like a long lost brother. Too much jollity and laughter for today. I thought of saying something, but … well, I get to spend time with my Elizabeth."

"And your son."

"Of course. Samuel. Yes. That was the start of it, you know. She just pined away. Weeks, that's all it took – a season. Barely three months. I well remember the night we learned the news of his death. She collapsed and was taken to her room. Never left it. He was her pride and joy – although it cost her everything."

I sensed some useful information just below the surface of his words, so I trod as carefully as I dared.

"Mothers do invest so much into their children."

"You and your late wife – you have children?"

"Well, no, but ..."

"Then stop talking rubbish, man, and leave me alone. I want to have my thoughts in quiet and private."

I knew as soon as I had spoken that the moment was gone, so I took my leave of him.

Walking back into the village who should I meet but Holmes, just entering the Inn. I caught up with him and soon we were in the garden with a brandy before us, looking out over the spring fields.

"I am sorry, Watson, for leaving you without telling you what my plans were," he said at length, once I had finished recounting my conversation with Sir George. "But I awoke early and a thought came to me which I knew I had to lay to rest before I could move on with my investigations."

"You _are_ carrying out investigations, then?"

He shot me a glance and took a sip of his drink. "Oh, most certainly," he replied. "I am not here just for the well earned holiday, you know." He smiled quickly, almost imperceptibly. "And I have to report that I am making progress. At last."

"Tell me, then," I encouraged him, taking a sip myself.

Holmes sat back in his chair, evidently pleased with himself. "What is the best way to find out about how a family house operates?"

"Well, I suppose you could do the obvious and speak to a family member."

"The problem with that approach is that you only ever find out what the family is willing to let go," he said. "For my purposes that will not do. You see, this business with first farmer Kennedy and then soldier Williams has got me searching for any link, and the only one of any substance I have found so far is that they were both educated at Eton."

"So were many people, Holmes," I interrupted. "If that's your link, then the list of suspects will be very long."

"Very good, Watson. So I need to test whether the link is true or not. Whether it is worth pursuit, or whether it should be disregarded. So I must test it. And for that I need to know about how the village works."

"Ah!" I exclaimed, understanding at last. "And because this is a tied village, then the family at the Hall would probably be the best place to start with testing that link."

"Exactly. But of course we have rather undermined our position with Sir George, so I needed another way in."

"You weren't the only one interested in the Hall today," I said. "I met Sir George in the churchyard earlier and had one of our usual frosty chats where I managed to upset him – again."

"Oh, Watson ..."

"And he told me he was actually glad to be away from the Hall since some loud Irishman had turned up out of the blue and his housekeeper …." I slowed as the light dawned. "You?"

Holmes stood up and bowed. "The same," he smiled, sitting again. "And a very useful time it was, too. Let me just summarise by saying that Sir George is a most tortured gentleman. He blames himself for his son's death. And since that death led to the loss of his wife, he carries that burden of guilt as well."

I whistled. "No wonder he looks as though he carries the world's cares! Say on, Holmes."

"I have a number of points of information from what my hostess told me, and they need to be considered at length. I am not jumping to any conclusions, Watson, surely you know me by now!"

"You will not share any of them?"

Not until we have sent a telegraph from the Post Office, no," he said. "Come along, drink up now, there's a good fellow. I wonder whether the machine is working today? If not, it will be a train into town for you, Watson."

But the Telegraph was working, and Holmes duly sent his message to Mycroft. Walking back, he recounted some of the conversation with Mrs Cullen to me.

"She does not like Mr Furlingstone," he said. "But then not many do. He has some sort of sway or hold over the entire house. I tried to tease it out but as luck would have it, at that point the man himself came in and that was temporarily the end of that line of enquiry. He is a most difficult fellow, Watson. You have met him?"

"No," I replied, "but I have seen the results of his handiwork."

"Yes, he does 'speak with his fists' as I think the saying goes," mused Holmes. "But I have few doubts that he is nothing more than a bully. I have asked Mycroft to determine whether the Metropolitan Force has any records on him, and I will pay our Constable Phillips a visit before sundown tonight to enquire of the same. There may be something there, but I think he knows people fear him and he chooses to use that in a rather antisocial way. There are few weeks evidently when he comes into the Hall after his weekly break without a story of how he has prevailed against some unfortunate. And so his reputation is built. But no longer." He smiled.

"What did you do, Holmes," I asked, although I think I knew the answer.

"Well when he came into where Mrs Cullen and I were conversing, I think he took exception."

"He sounds the sort who would, yes..."

"But no match for my baritsu skills."

"Oh, good grief. What have you done?"

Holmes acted the innocent. "What was I supposed to do? Threatening me, and shouting at my new friend Mrs Cullen. He picked up a walking stick and approached me. Moments later he was on the floor, and decided to leave it at that. He left the room with his tail between his legs I can tell you." He stretched back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, smiling and pleased with himself.

"So in the course of investigating the death of two men you have made an enemy of the local hard man," I noted sourly. "Do you not think _that_ might be the link, Holmes? That both Kennedy and Williams got on the wrong side of Furlingstone, and he saw them off – permanently?"

"Oh, come now, Watson, do not be concerned," he replied. "For one thing, I do not think it his style. He is a bully, as I said. He is not a murderer. Remember Taylor's account of Kennedy's meeting with his assailant? Can you imagine Kennedy being on friendly terms with one such as Furlingstone?"

"Well, I have not had the pleasure of meeting him, so I can't comment."

"But I have, and take it from me my dear Watson, that Furlingstone is capable of much, but not to that end. It is not how he works, I'll warrant."

"Then why ask Mycroft about him?"

"I want to understand where he fits into the puzzle. Each has their place. When the last piece is in place, the puzzle is complete and the solution is clear."

"Very well, I'll take your word for that. What else did Mrs Cullen say? What about Sir George and his son?"

Holmes thought quietly for a few moments. "His son committed suicide when he was eleven years of age. Mrs Cullen said that father and son had never been close, and that Sir George blamed himself that his son in his troubles could not confide in him."

"That has happened in many families, unfortunately."

"Indeed, although the extra element here is the subsequent death of his wife. Mrs Cullen would say no more than to speak to Doctor Clare. So that is what I am going to do. But alone, I am afraid, Watson. I wish you to see our friend Constable Phillips and ascertain whether Mr Furlingstone is known to him. It should be no trouble getting the information, since he holds you – or should I say Doctor Conan Doyle - in such high regard."

Having broken for tea, we went our separate ways. I found Phillips tending his vegetable garden.

"Furlingstone!" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, he's trouble all right. Not serious, you understand. But he has kept he busy these past few months. Just a bully, that's all. Gets a bit of drink in him, and off he goes. I'll note down some details for you."

Furnished with the information, I must admit to feeling some pleasure at my success in so short a time. I wondered whether Holmes had been so lucky, so I diverted my journey to the Inn and made route for the Doctor's house, close to the churchyard. Sure enough, as I approached I saw Holmes bidding good day to the Doctor. We met and walked back to the Inn.

"So..?" I enquired. Holmes was deep in thought.

"Deeper and deeper, Watson," he replied cryptically.

"Are you going to tell me, then?"

"Oh, sorry, yes. But first, what did you find about Furlingstone?" I handed over Phillips' notes. He spent as few minutes on them, and handed them back. "As I suspected , nothing of significance. A bully."

"The doctor...?"

"Ah, yes. He had something very interesting to say about Elizabeth Coldenhall."

"Go on."

"Sir George was right when he said to you that it cost her everything. Her life, certainly, but also her ability to have more children. Samuel's birth was very difficult. She could not have other children."

"How sad."

"Yes, very. But there is now something at the back of my mind about which I am uneasy. And the problem is, at present I do not know what it is for sure. It's just a thought, a worry. But something is not right. I need that telegraph from Mycroft."

"Secrets, Holmes?" I asked.

"I think that is exactly it, Watson."


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: the Holmes brothers and Watson belong to ACD; other characters are mine.

**Chapter 8: Closer to the Truth**

I was awakened by Holmes shaking me roughly. The dawn light was shining weakly through the curtains.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked blearily.

"A telegram," he replied. "It has just arrived from Mycroft and we need to go to the Hall immediately."

"Why?"

"Because there is something in the communication which needs to be followed up as a matter of urgency, of course. Don't be so obtuse."

"Doubtless you are going to tell me what this matter is, of course."

He smiled. "Bear with me, Watson. Let's go."

"What, so early?" I protested. "Surely a bite to eat first?"

"We must away, Watson. I am sorry but needs must."

Fifteen minutes later and we were walking briskly up the driveway to the Hall. Holmes was deep in thought, and his lips moved as he perhaps rehearsed what he was going to ask on our arrival.

The door was opened by the Butler, who showed us into the morning room. We heard muffled talking as Sir George was summoned, and he joined us in no good mood.

"Doctor; Mr Smith. What is it _now_?" The emphasis on the final word showed his exasperation.

"I have this morning received a telegram from my brother in London," Holmes started.

"This had best be good," Sir George replied. "I am disinterested in your family news."

"My brother is Mycroft Holmes."

It took a few moments for Sir George's face to show the register of this news.

"You ... you _are_ Sherlock Holmes?" Holmes bowed stiffly. "And you, then, are Watson?" he continued, to me. I nodded. Sir George sat at the desk by the window. "So it is true, then – all those stories; they are not just fiction?"

Holmes shook his head, and started to warm to the task at hand. "So I must ask you, Sir George, what is the exact nature of your relationship with Furlingstone."

"Relationship?" asked Sir George, taken aback. "What do you mean, _relationship_?"

"He clearly has some hold on the family, or should I say, you in particular. The telegram states that two years ago he was convicted at the local Assizes for a number of felonies but that you stood bail for him, appeared as a character witness and were in no small way responsible for his acquittal."

"He was acquitted because there was no evidence," stormed Sir George. "Great Heavens, man, this is not the Dark Ages. We may not have all the delicacies of city life, but we don't burn witches here you know. Nor send innocent men to jail."

"There was strong testimony from a number of witnesses who saw the ... alleged crimes."

"You mean young Taylor's father, and his friends," he snorted. "They'd say anything for a drink."

"So you are not going to help?"

"I cannot see what you mean. Help to do what?"

"Sir George, do not obstruct me." Holmes was clearly becoming irate with the lack of progress.

"I am not being obstructive, I am telling you the truth!" shouted Sir George.

"I have information that Miles Furlingstone stood accused of grievous bodily harm and making threats to murder," shouted Holmes back. "If this man is blackmailing you, then please, Sir George, tell me. Get it go. I can help. You know my reputation."

"I know you reputation, Mr Holmes," he replied, trying to calm himself. "I see that you are as irritating and single minded in real life as you are in the stories. My soul, Doctor, you have indeed captured him well." I smiled, trying to defuse the situation, but to no avail. He continued, "But that does not change the fact that there is nothing to tell here. Now, I ask you to leave, before I call the police."

"Constable Phillips is leaving today, by your own hand."

"He is still the representative of the law whilst he is here, whatever his failings as a man are," spat Sir George. "Now get out."

We turned for the door, but as we did so, the frame was filled by the bulk of the man I guessed to be said Furlingstone. Seeing Holmes he seemed to shrink slightly, but still spoke with all the bluster he could manage.

"Is there trouble, sir? Shall I see them off?"

The change in Sir George's mood was immediate. He became softer, almost apologetic. "No, Furlingstone, our guests were just leaving."

We doffed our hats as we left, and made our way out of the Hall back down into the village to the '_Black Dog'_. Breakfast was quickly procured and we sat in the alcove which had become so familiar to us over the past days.

Refreshed, I felt able to better handle Holmes' lack of explanation. He smiled on my asking, and showed me the telegram. "No police records for Furlingstone? That can't be right. What about what you said?" I asked.

"I made it up."

"So why didn't he challenge you?"

"Oh, there _was_ a case where Furlingstone was brought before the Assizes a couple of years ago, that much was true. I got that from the local records in the Market Hall. And Sir George did defend him against the evidence – for evidence there was. But isn't it interesting that he didn't challenge my assertion that he was known to Scotland Yard?"

"Well, mildly so perhaps. Should he have known? The local case might have been reported more widely. But Holmes, why the shouting? Why the bad temper?"

"I needed to find out about Furlingstone's hold over the family. You saw it when he came in – how Sir George changed. Furlingstone clearly has a hold over him, of that there is no doubt. I hoped to raise Sir George's hackles to the point where he let the truth slip out, or at least say something that would reveal the information I was seeking."

"Did he?"

"As I say, I think his actions spoke louder than his words. It is a shame Furlingstone came in when he did. I must admit that I was expecting the Yard to have a record on him, but – well, let's enjoy breakfast before we see Constable Phillips off."

"Do you really think that is a good idea?"

"Why not?" he smiled.

An hour later we were at the Police House, watching Phillips load the carriage with his few possessions. Seeing us he came over to speak.

"I am off to pastures new, then, gentlemen. Not that it is of my own making, of course; Sir George and I have recently not seen eye to eye."

"He has certainly had a hand in your move," I confirmed.

"It's just that he seems to get fixed on one idea alone," he continued. "He just can't see the possibility of another solution to the deaths."

"And you are convinced there is one?" I said.

"I do, and nothing you can say can change that," he replied. "Do you know, I often wonder what sort of man he would have been had the child lived. And his wife of course. Elizabeth Coldenhall was a fine woman from what I have heard tell. Very well spoken of."

"Was she known in the village, then?" asked Holmes. "Beyond being Lady of the Manor, I mean."

"Oh yes, she grew up local, sir," he replied. "Elizabeth Parham she was in her maiden state; she hailed from the next village down the valley. She and Sir George met when he was out riding and – well, it was love, so I understand. Too long ago for me, of course. Are you all right, Mr Smith?"

I turned to see the object of his concern. Holmes was standing as if in a daze, mouth forming silent words and his face contorted with what appeared to all intents and purposes to be anger.

"Holmes?" I said.

"_Holmes_?" There was a note of incredulity in Phillips' voice. "But ... not ..."

"Yes, yes," I said, tired of the charade. "I am John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. He will confirm the fact if he ever finds his voice again. Holmes, what is the matter?"

"Holmes' voice was thick with emotion. "I have been such a fool!" he exclaimed at last. "You did say her maiden name was Parham?"

"Yes."

Holmes was suddenly animated. "Thank you, Constable. Enjoy recounting the tale of how you met us to your new charges. And good day."

Leaving the stunned policeman alone in the road, Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me away. "Fool! Fool! How could I have missed it?" he muttered under his breath. "I must be getting soft between the ears."

"You are making no sense."

"Can't you see it? No, of course you can't." The look on my face must have told of my reaction. "My apologies, Watson, but this means that it all slips into place. At least, I think it does. I need sometime of quiet, but on the other hand we may need to move quickly."

"Why?"

"To prevent the third of three murders, which will conclude a chain of events set in motion twenty years ago."

"What event? The death of Elizabeth Coldenhall?"

"No, that of Samuel Coldenhall."

"The boy? What has the boy to do with this? How could a suicide twenty years ago lead to a murder today?"

"Watson, please be silent whilst I think of our next move."

As we walked down the lane, we heard the sound of a carriage and turning saw the Coldenhall hansom leaving the Hall and making its way to the east. The windows were closed by curtains. Holmes stopped in his tracks. "I wonder ..." he mused. Then seeming to make a decision - "No, to the Hall – again."

"Very well, but remember you are rapidly losing any hope of getting any information through your charm."

"Ha! Very good, Watson. Where would I be without you!" He slapped me on the back. "I want to see Mrs Cullen."

A few minutes we were in the kitchen of the Hall, and Holmes was explaining to a crestfallen Mrs Cullen that he was in fact not some long lost Irish relation but the world famous consulting detective.

"Well I must say," she said repeatedly, not following her own advice. At last Holmes was able to determine that Sir George had been called away on urgent business in Southampton, and that Furlingstone had also left to visit some friends. Holmes engaged her in friendly conversation, and I watched impressed as he quickly regained her trust. She had been at the Hall long enough to remember the former Elizabeth Parham's meeting and marriage to Sir George. Holmes gently lead her through their early years and the birth of Samuel, two years after their marriage. Then Holmes asked a question that stopped her talking for a few moments.

"Did Sir George love his son?"

"Yes," she said after some thought. "But he didn't like him, if you know what I mean. He blamed the boy for the fact the Lady could have no other children, and for the suffering she went through during the birth. He seemed distant, but yes he did love him. He was his only son, and that makes all the difference. He was the future. And he was snatched away."

"Why snatched? Why that word?" Holmes asked.

"No one commits suicide for fun," she replied sadly. "Whatever or whoever drove him to suicide snatched him from us all."

Holmes continued with his gentle questioning. "What was done about the boy's education?"

"Oh, he was well catered for," she replied. "But Sir George felt it hard to have him around the house. They were not close. He was sent to the best boarding schools. At the time of his death he was at the Windsor St John Academy."

For the second time in the day, Holmes' face was contorted with emotion. "Next to the Great Park?" he said.

"You know it?" she asked.

"Not specifically," he contained himself, and stood to leave. "Mrs Cullen, I am sorry I mislead you, but please believe that today you may have saved someone's life by what you have told me." She swelled visibly. "But now we must be gone," he continued, beckoning to me and making for the door.

We walked down the lane from the Hall quickly. "The Post Office, Watson!" he exclaimed, "and pray that we are not too late."

"For what?"

"The third murder."

We arrived at the Post Office to find its doors locked. Holmes hammered on the door and at last the Postmaster opened it to us.

"A telegram; I have to send a telegram!" shouted Holmes.

"Now, sir, I'm afraid I can't do that," he replied. "The Telegraph is broken."

Holmes was desperate. "The station, Watson, that's all we have left. Quickly!"

At full run we arrived at the station just to see the London train making ready to pull away. We ran onto the platform, ignoring the pleas of the Station Master, and boarded it with moments to spare.

Despite my requests, Holmes was silent on the journey. I paid the fare to the guard, and sat opposite him as the countryside unfolded past us. The hour thus passed slowly, and it was gone lunchtime before we arrived at Waterloo Station. A hansom was quickly hailed, and to my surprise Holmes commanded it to Westminster, and the Houses of Parliament.

Arriving at Parliament Square, in front of the imposing edifice which represented the best of the Empire, Holmes at last spoke to me. "Your revolver, Watson. You have it?"

I patted my waist cost under which my trusty friend lay concealed as usual. "As ever, Holmes, always prepared. But for what?"

"I don't exactly know, but I will know when I see it."

"You are making no sense."

"The afternoon session. Lords are just arriving – look, there is Lord Suffolk, and with him Bishop Sutton ... and - ah! There he is! Lord Durringham, First Sea Lord and Commander of the Treasury. The second most powerful man in Government, after the Prime Minister. Follow him, quickly. We need to stay close."

"Why – or can I guess?"

"Of course you can guess. There is to be an attempt on his life – wait! Great Heavens, it is now! Watson, quickly!"

As Lord Durringham approached the entrance to the Great Hall, a masked figure broke from the crowd surrounding the entrance and barged towards him. I saw the flash of a gun being drawn, but Holmes was quicker, lunging out and pulling it away. He wrestled the figure to the ground whilst the crowd looked on in amazement, and triumphantly pulled off the mask to reveal the face of the attacker.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: the Holmes brothers and Watson belong to ACD. Other characters are mine.

**Chapter 9 – Disclosure and Closure**

The fire in the grate provided the warmth that was so badly needed as we returned at last to 221B. Holmes threw his coat over the chair and sat in his accustomed place by the window, indicating to Sir George to sit at the table. I sat opposite.

"So," said Holmes, "Tell me about Miles Furlingstone."

Sir George took a sigh. "In him I saw something of the son I lost," he said, simply. "He liked his own company; other children and latterly adults picked on him somewhat. So I did the decent thing, and took him under my care for a while. I supported his mother in schooling him, and when he was of age I took him on at the Hall."

"And that is where it started to go wrong, of course?" asked Holmes.

"You are very preceptive, Mr Holmes," he replied. "Unfortunately Miles Furlingstone was a man who hid a secret – a damaged personality. Once he was engaged at the Hall, and knowing he had my favour, he considered himself untouchable. From the quiet, put-upon child came a brutal bully of a man. Not to me, of course, but to others; and believe me there is not a day that I do not regret my kindness to him."

"So why didn't you sack him?" I asked, frustrated that the man could not and had not seen and done the obvious.

"That is easy for you to say, Doctor," he replied. "But in the stead of my son, whom I had driven away by my coldness after the suffering of his mother, Furlingstone was surely redeemable. At least, that's what I thought. I gave him chance after chance. That was a nasty trick, Mr Holmes, bringing up that matter of the Assizes and my defence of him. But I ask, what would _you_ have done? All I can say is, that I did what I thought was right."

"And created a monster into the bargain," I said, ruefully.

"Perhaps," he stated simply. "But not so great a monster as … as ..." His voice cracked and petered out.

Holmes got up and poured him a brandy, setting it on the table before returning to his seat. "Perhaps I can help by retelling the events, Sir George," he stated. Sir George looked at him, thought for a moment, and then nodded. Holmes collected his thoughts, and then started.

"I owe, of course, a great debt to my brother who has handled my enquiries here in London – and elsewhere – whilst we have been your guests," he said. "Without him I would not have understood what was happening beneath what on the face of it is an idyllic English country village. But, it is often thus, and Coldenhall is probably no different from many other sleepy villages across this fair land.

"After your wife was declared barren, and unable to have more children, you rather took it out on the poor boy, did you not? You were never the father that Samuel Coldenhall needed. In fact your every action showed your distaste of him and he grew up lonely and unloved. All he wanted through his short life was to belong."

"I see it now, of course. I knew that I drove him away. It was pure spite. Believe me, if I could undo ..."

"But you cannot. When he was eleven he was sent off to school at Windsor, and of course it is there that your actions dictated what eventually happened."

"His suicide," I stated.

"Not suicide, Watson," Holmes replied to my amazement. "The death of Samuel Coldenhall was a tragic accident, was it not, Sir George?"

He nodded, remaining silent, his eyes cast downwards.

"You see, Watson," continued Holmes. "Samuel Coldenhall just wanted to belong. And one day, walking alone in the woods near the school, on the edge of Windsor Great Park, he met three young men, a couple of years older than he – students at nearby Eton College, taking their recreation as was the custom on a Saturday when sports were completed. In these three he saw what he most desired – friendship. And they were not unfriendly to him. They did not know who he was; did you know, Watson, that he did not even enrol him at school under the name Coldenhall, but his wife's maiden name of Parham? But to return to the tale - to join their circle of companionship he had to show he was worthy."

Sir George snorted. "So that's the word, is it?"

"In their eyes, yes. Come on, sir George, you know as well as I do how complex are the relationships between students in our schools. Hierarchies abound, those in prefecture lord it over those who have just joined. It is rife, and entirely harmless. Well, usually harmless. These three young men told Samuel that if he was to join their circle he must pass an initiation. None of us were there, of course, but from the Coroner's report I strongly suggest that this initiation involved him standing on an upended log for a few minutes, with a hangman's noose around his neck. A ceremony not unlike others I have known have endured. But the reward at the end – to join! To belong! It was worth the risk.

"I imagine that the three went off some distance for those few minutes to enjoy a smoke. Maybe they heard the disturbance, or maybe they were too busy talking. Either way, something startled young Samuel – a bird taking flight perhaps from nearby undergrowth. He lost his balance and … well, you know the rest. The boys returned to find Samuel dead, hanged from the branch where they had left him.

"And this is where the intrigue begins. Do they own up? There is nothing actually wrong with what has gone on. But they are cowards. They run back to College and say no more about the matter. Samuel's body is found two days later by a woodsman. By then the birds have feasted..."

"Enough!" shouted Sir George. "I know how he was found. Suicide they said, and I blamed myself. My dear Elizabeth blamed me as well, and herself for not being closer to the boy than I would allow her. I was determined that he should suffer, and now he had taken his life – so I thought. And I considered his action to be directly my fault. Elizabeth pined away before my eyes. I vowed then to visit the grave every day, and to try to undo the wrongs I had done – hence my interest in young Furlingstone."

"And so it remained," said Holmes, "for almost twenty years. The same daily ritual, visiting the grave. The frustration of watching over Miles Furlingstone. The loneliness of being in charge of Colden Hall and the village, but the opportunities for redemption through good works that it brought were always in your thoughts. Until that fateful day when Thomas Williams, late of the 4th Fusiliers, calls at the Hall."

"Well I remember that day," said Sir George, bitterly.

"He was dying, and knew it. He wanted to clear his conscience of all the wrongs he had done. But there was one secret he was keeping that he could tell no-one, apart from a member of the judiciary. A crime, so he felt, which he had committed. The death of a boy in the woods near Windsor. The boy around whose neck he had tied the hangman's noose, and tied the wrong knot. He intended that even if an accident happened no harm would befall the boy. But he tied the wrong knot."

"Samuel?" I said incredulously.

"Exactly," replied Holmes. "And what Williams did not know was that he was cleansing his conscience to the father of the dead boy."

"And the other two?" I asked, although I thought I could guess at the answer.

"Michael Kennedy, and Peter, now Lord, Durringham. He told Sir George who they were."

"Great heavens..."

"And I determined they must pay for their crime," said Sir George.

"There was no crime!" I objected.

"Oh yes there was," he said. "Cowardice. They ran away and hid. They could have come clean, and if they had, perhaps my dear Elizabeth would still be here with me. They killed her, just as surely as they had stabbed her through the heart. What sort of man serves his country as a soldier, gaining distinction in the battlefield, and yet runs away like that?"

"He was a thirteen year old boy!" I exploded.

"Calm yourself, Watson," continued Holmes. "We are almost done. So you decide they must pay. The first opportunity is with Kennedy. But you are seen – not only by Taylor, who does not recognise you when you meet Kennedy in the field, but also by Furlingstone who, unbeknown to Taylor, knows of his poaching and has followed him in order to catch him in the act. Instead what he sees you do he now uses to ensure his place in the Hall is secure, by blackmailing you, Sir George."

Sir George sat quietly, and simply nodded.

"More recently, you decide the time is ripe to have your revenge on Williams. You invite him to a further discussion – in the cellar of the _Black Dog_ – and whilst there overcome him and strike him down, before pulling him to the top of the stairs and pushing him down again, this time to his death. His neck is broken."

"And of course, being the Coroner at their Inquests you could decide against any foul play," I said.

"Exactly, Watson," Holmes continued. "In spite of Constable Phillips' doubts and concerns – which I have reported as being accurate to his superiors and who therefore will be returning to Coldenhall to serve again – the Inquests show death by misadventure. Which just leaves Lord Durringham, and you, Watson, have to take credit for the timing of that attempt."

"In what way, Holmes?"

"With your revelation of our identities to Sir George, he knows he must strike immediately, since from your rather effusive works of literature he is convinced I will not be long in working out the tangled web. As was indeed the case. So, to London, and the attempt on His Lordship's life, which we were able to prevent."

"Shall I call Lestrade?" I asked. Sir George looked up at me, and those sad eyes met mine.

"No, Watson," replied Holmes. "What I am about to do will find no favour with you, I know, but I think it is for the best. I have no truck with you, Sir George, and do not think that I would otherwise hesitate for a moment to hand you over, and you know you would be found guilty on my evidence, and executed."

"I do know it," he replied. "I am in your hands, Mr Holmes."

"I am thinking only of the Coldenhall name, and of the families of Williams and Kennedy. They have gone through enough without finding out that their loved ones covered up a death. Let the Inquest verdicts stand, and let Williams and Kennedy rest in peace and keep their secrets in the grave. But you, Sir George ..." He stood up. "No-one except we three know of the attempt on Lord Durringham today – to the crowd it was just a brawl. I will say nothing of the matter, save that it has been as well that we prevented you. You will make sure everything is in order, and then I expect you to _do the decent thing_." His emphasis on these last words was absolute. "Do we understand each other?" Sir George nodded.

"Then go, not with my blessing, but under my watch. I will be waiting."

Although the fire was high in the grate, the room was cold after Sir George left. I sat quietly for a few minutes, and then simply said to Holmes, "What have you done?"

"I have brought justice where there was none, and kept secret that which must remain so. Let the Coldenhall legacy be one of honour, not of ruin. Now, if I may, I think we will ask Mrs Hudson for a plate of her best scones."

* * *

A few months later I saw the report in _The Times_. Sir George Coldenhall had sold up the entirety of his Hampshire estate, and his holdings in London and Ireland, and had decided to emigrate to the colonies. He had left substantial sums to the families of Thomas Williams and Michael Kennedy, as well as gifts to Miles Furlingstone and William Taylor; the remainder was distributed to local families and charities.

Sir George had left for South Africa on an Oceanic Line ship, but eight days out of Southampton it was noted that he had not returned from his usual perambulation of the ship as was his habit before retiring. Despite a full search of the vessel, he was not to be found; an Inquest recorded that he had fallen overboard and was drowned in the Atlantic.

"So he did the decent thing, then, Holmes?" I asked.

He poured himself a brandy. "On balance, I think so, Watson."

THE END


End file.
